


After All

by greenapricot



Series: All Told [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Lewis Summer Challenge 2017, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: James leans in as well, studiously ignoring how much Lewis in reality is behaving like Lewis in his head. It’s one thing to daydream about it, it’s another thing entirely to believe that it’s true.(Or five times James Hathaway wanted to kiss Robbie Lewis and one time he did.)





	After All

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge at the lewis_challenge community (on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth).
> 
> A million thanks to Jack for the beta, Brit-pick, and snicker-inducing encouraging comments. Without their help this would make far less sense. All remaining mistakes are my own.

1.

There is nothing like early morning on the river, the cool mist before the heat of the day, the bird calls, and the rhythm of the oars in counterpoint to his breath. Out on the water there is nothing but James and the boat moving together like a well-oiled machine. He doesn’t need to think, just move, years of muscle memory pulling the boat through the still water. Sometimes he feels like he could row for hours. Sometimes he does. 

By the time James turns the scull around to return to the boathouse, his arms are pleasantly sore and his mind free of intrusive thoughts. The sun filters through the trees on the bank in intricate, shifting patterns as James passes. He is so focused on those patterns and the way the light dances along the oars, that he doesn’t notice the figure sitting on the bench closest to the boathouse until he’s almost reached the dock. It’s not just any figure, though, it’s Lewis. They must have a callout, there’s no other reason for Lewis to be by the river at half seven.

The sight of Lewis sends that familiar prickle of anticipation and possibilities never to be fulfilled up James’ spine. His rhythm falters for a moment as he watches the set of Lewis’ shoulders when he leans against the bench and takes a sip from the Costa cup in his hand. The meditative calm James had found out on the water has slipped away by the time he reaches the bank. He finds himself simultaneously annoyed at Lewis for intruding and glad to see him an hour and a half earlier than expected. 

Lewis comes over as James is lifting the boat out of the water and gives him a hand with the other end.

“You looked good out there,” Lewis says. At first, James thinks Lewis is complimenting him personally, not his rowing form.

James shrugs. “Could be better.” He stows his oars, hoping his skin is still flushed enough from the workout that Lewis can’t detect the blush creeping up his neck at the imagined compliment. “Don’t get as much time out there as I'd like.”

“Mmm,” Lewis says.

James turns around to gather his coat and his thoughts before he says something inadvisable. When he turns back Lewis presents him with a cup of his own: cappuccino with a double shot of espresso, still piping hot. Perfect. This is exactly the problem. Lewis not only knows how he likes his coffee but which Costa always gets his order right, and that particular location is not between Lewis’ flat and the river. Which means— exactly nothing. All the evidence is circumstantial wishful thinking.

“Is there time to swing by my flat before we visit the corpse?” James asks, taking another sip of his perfect coffee.

“Only if you want to risk Laura's wrath.”

James glances down at himself: hoodie, joggers, trainers, and the unseen sweat prickling at the small of his back. “Let's risk it. You can blame our late arrival on me.”

“Suit yourself.” Lewis smiles as if the extra drive between James’ flat and the crime scene is a treat for him as well. But it can't be, James is projecting. He returns the smile in spite of himself.  
  


2.

James is trying to quit smoking. Again. So far he’s had about as much success as the previous attempt. He’s read the research about forming new replacement habits rather than trying to eradicate the old, he understands the psychology of it, but the truth is he enjoys smoking. It’s calming, not only the effect of the nicotine but the act itself. To have a break, get out of the office for a few minutes on long paperwork filled days and away from the distraction of watching his boss on the other side of the room and longing to touch. 

A break from thinking about how Lewis might come over to his desk for a file. A file that would be laying on James’ desk between him and his keyboard. How Lewis, instead of reaching across the desk for it, would come around to James’ side of the desk and reach over him, his arm brushing James’ biceps, his chest against James’ shoulder and James would lean into him. The back of the chair would be in the way but he’d still feel the warmth of Lewis so close to him. Lewis would stay there for a moment, put his hands on the chair and spin it around so James was facing him and—

“James.” By the tone of Lewis’ voice this is not the first time he’s said his name. James looks up and focuses on Lewis across the room instead of Lewis in his head. He’s got one of the many cheap biros he’s kept around since the beginning of his latest journey toward becoming a non-smoker between his lips, sucking on it, and the look on Lewis’ face is… impossible.

James grabs the biro from his mouth, his face going hot even as he says, “Sir.” At least his voice sounds somewhat normal.

“Have you had a look at that Worthington report?” Lewis asks.

“I've got it right here.” James gestures toward his computer. “I’ll print a copy.”

“No need,” Lewis says. “I only need to see the arrest summary.”

Before James can dissuade him Lewis comes round his desk, leaning over to get closer to the monitor in an eerie echo of James’ imaginings. He rests one hand on the desk inches from James’ hand on the mouse, and the other on the back of James’ chair as he bends down for a better look.

“Might want to get your eyes checked, sir,” James says in an effort to distract himself from the way Lewis’ proximity sends little jolts of excitement along his spine.

“So you keep saying,” Lewis grumbles. It’s the third time James has mentioned it in as many weeks. Lewis has been squinting at things of late, grousing about unreadable text on his phone and then handing it to James to read for him. To say James doesn’t mind this new part of his sergeant’s duties would be a gross understatement; the way Lewis leans in to look at the phone in James’ hand as he reads the emails out loud, the way Lewis’ shoulder brushes his as if they are sharing a secret. But it’s selfish of him to want Lewis to keep doing that only to perpetuate the false sense of intimacy. Selfish and dishonest and bad for Lewis’ eyesight.

“I wear glasses. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Lewis’ face scrunches up in agitation. “You wear contacts.”

“Which also help people see.”

Lewis huffs but doesn’t say anything more. As with the dentist, James suspects he’s going to have to make the appointment and drive him to it to get Lewis to go.

James zooms in on the report and points to the pertinent information, but Lewis doesn’t change his position despite the fact that he must be able to read it better now. He nods and begins reading, his chest brushing James’ shoulder as he breathes. Halfway through Lewis stops and points to something.

“That doesn't look right.” He braces his hand on James’ shoulder and leans in further, scrutinising. James leans in as well, taking a closer look at the offending text and studiously ignoring how much Lewis in reality is behaving like Lewis in his head. It’s one thing to daydream about it, it’s another thing entirely to believe that it’s true.

“That it doesn’t. Thank you, sir.”

“Better get this sorted then.” Lewis gives James’ shoulder a squeeze then returns to his desk. James can hear the smile in Lewis’ voice, but it will be a solid minute before he can look at Lewis again without giving himself away. He needs a cigarette.  
  


3.

The sunset light is turning the world golden; trees, stone, passers-by, the pavement, Lewis’ profile. It sends their shadows long in front of them as they walk, stretching and contracting with each step and swing of their arms. Their shadows intermingle as they move, never quite separating, legs touching, then hands, then shoulders. Shadow arms swinging in perfect synchronisation as if they are holding hands.

They could be holding hands, there are mere inches between them, their shoulders brushing every few steps. If James reached out right now…

There was a point when he told himself he would stop doing this, when he tried to banish these thoughts from his mind much like the urge to smoke. But he’s since resigned himself to their inevitability. As with the smoking, he’s not altogether disappointed in his inability to eradicate the thoughts. So he lets them come, tries to allow them to pass through him and away. But that hasn’t ever quite worked. The thoughts don’t come any less frequently for his letting them run their course. 

The solution would be to get a transfer, find an inspector who doesn’t distract him from the work at hand. But he can’t make himself do it. Can’t even make himself seriously think about doing it.

Instead, he watches the shadows stretch and contract as they walk, the golden light on pale stone, the streaks of orange and pink across the sky. He lets himself pretend, until they’ve reached the road and their cars, that with the next step he is going to reach out and that his reaching out will be welcome.

James almost leans into Lewis as he says good night, as if the evening will end with a kiss and not two solitary drives to two solitary flats. Lewis doesn’t notice James’ near faux pas. He never does, for which James is grateful. Once Lewis notices that will be the end of all this. The end of working together, the end of companionable silences during walks and over pints. The end of Lewis wanting to have anything to do with him at all. It is an end that James can’t bring himself to initiate though he probably should. If he can’t reshape his feelings for Lewis into something appropriate for a sergeant to feel for his inspector he ought to remove himself from the situation. But living with false hope, as it turns out, is more tolerable than living with no hope at all.  
  


4.

The speakers are switched off in the observation room but James doesn’t need to hear the words to know what Lewis is saying in the interrogation. He’s in bumbling Geordie mode, lulling the suspect into a false sense of security. The suspect thinks he’s made a friend, that Lewis is sympathetic to him and his imagined plight, but he’s not. Thirty seconds and the tables are going to turn.

Twenty.

Two more questions.

There. Yes. Masterful.

The suspect deflates with his inevitable defeat and Lewis glances toward the window. Somehow he knows James is watching even though he was already in the interview room when James returned from records.

Lewis may know James is watching, but he is still hidden from view and it is a relief to be able to watch Lewis work without having to worry about how much is showing on his face. A relief to not have to hold himself in check for these few minutes. A relief to be able to admire every minute detail of Lewis’ actions without the possibility of his keen eyes seeing through James’ delicate facade to the truth underneath.

The truth, that he is in love with Lewis, is his constant companion. The weight of it has become so familiar that James can hardly remember a time he was without it. Like training at high altitude, what at first was a crushing weight is now nothing but normalcy. A tenuous normalcy which is beginning to unravel his ability to do his job.

When he’s not imagining what it would be like to be close to Lewis without pretence, to kiss him, to have sex with him, James imagines what it would be like to tell him. Not what he wants it to be like—the outlandish fantasy of Lewis being somehow amenable to James’ advances—but what would actually happen. The look of horror on Lewis’ face, the way his mouth would hang open in disgusted incredulity at James’ confession before his kindness took over and he managed some sort of a smile. James would step in closer, before he lost his nerve, before Lewis sent him away forever, and kiss him. He would feel Lewis’ lips on his for one blissful moment before Lewis stepped away and left him with the inevitable eternity of nothing. 

He runs through the scenario in his head over and over to keep himself from acting on it. To show himself that though he’s never going to get what he wants changing the status quo would be worse. Yet still, he wonders. Would saying something be better even though the consequences would be dire? It might be. To rip off the last fragment of false hope like a plaster and let the wound finally begin to heal.

Lewis turns off the recorder and stands, and a uniform PC comes through to take the now confessed suspect away. James takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and schools his face into the mask he needs to face Lewis without ruining everything.

He meets Lewis in the hallway as the suspect is being led away.

“Well done, sir,” James says. Lewis turns toward him, tilts his head as if he’s assessing something, and for a moment James worries that the thoughts from the observation room are still showing on his face.

“Was all down to your research, wasn’t it,” Lewis says, giving James a lingering pat on the shoulder. James is lost in the slide of Lewis’ fingers across his shoulder blade and the surely imagined affection contained in the gesture. It's getting worse, he's ascribing impossible motives to at least half of Lewis actions now.

“Pint,” Lewis says, undeterred by James’ lack of response, with a big, fond smile that can only be down to the satisfaction of another case closed.

“Yes, sir.” James smiles back and follows Lewis out the door. As if he could possibly do anything else.  
  


5.

The fifth day in a row of paperwork and James is wishing for a murder, something to concentrate on besides Lewis’ rolled up sleeves and the play of tendons in his forearms during all his frustrated typing and clicking. Lewis hits enter again and flicks the mouse back and forth with great annoyance. In a moment he’s going to give up on whatever it is and call James over to help him. James takes the biro he’s chewing out of his mouth and taps it on the desk, waiting.

“I can’t make hide nor hair of this bloody thing,” Lewis grumbles short minutes later.

James doesn’t need more justification than that to go over to Lewis’ desk. Lewis doesn't move out of the way or tilt the monitor to make it easier for James to see. There’s nothing for it but to lean over Lewis’ shoulder to read what’s on the screen. James tries to ignore the fact that he can smell Lewis’ shampoo as he takes in the options available and reaches for the mouse without looking. His hand closes over warm flesh instead of plastic and for two heart-stopping seconds, they are nearly holding hands. James mutters an apology and lifts his hand again. Lewis moves his hand off the mouse and James grabs it, the plastic still warm from Lewis’ touch, and tries to navigate his way through the interface on the screen before Lewis can divine his thoughts.

Lewis gives James a sidelong look but only asks, “If I’m meant to be entering data then where’s the bloody data entry point?”

James leans forward again and Lewis leans back and it’s so perfectly timed it almost seems deliberate. Like Lewis wants James to lean into him, wants James’ chest pressing against his shoulder. But that can’t be anything other than James’ perennially overactive imagination. He breathes through his nose and bites down on the instinct to ask Lewis to lean forward, or worse, lean back further, and concentrates on the inscrutable instructions in front of him.

“It’s not you,” James says, finally clicking through to the correct screen. “Whoever designed this interface should be prosecuted.”

Lewis chuckles and turns toward James, to say something presumably, but they are so close, Lewis’ face mere inches away. He could just— James straightens and takes a step back.

“If that’s all, sir.” James’ voice is a bit higher than usual. He doesn’t wait for Lewis to reply and makes a hasty retreat to his desk, hunching down into his collar to hide the flush that he can feel creeping up his neck.  
  


+1.

James has had a bit too much to drink. So has Lewis if the way they sway into each other while they walk is any indication. The night air is cool but not cold, a breeze eddying around the corners of the buildings and cooling the sweat on James’ neck, dispelling the last vestiges of the day’s heat. It is invigorating. Life affirming. James is not examining how it is that a few too many drinks and the close company of his boss for a couple of hours have made everything right with the world even after the case they've just closed. He’s enjoying it, because even he can admit that he deserves to enjoy something every once in a while.

The breeze, however pleasant, is not a friend to his lighter and James stops at the entrance to an alley to light a cigarette, ducking around the corner to get out of the wind. When he turns around, smoke blissfully filling his lungs, Lewis is right there; standing a bit too close in the way of pleasantly drunk people everywhere.

“You should quit,” Lewis says. But it’s not the derisive tone James expects from Lewis in regard to his smoking. It’s almost wistful.

“I’m aware.” 

Lewis takes half a step closer, as close as he can get without touching, forcing James to exhale up toward the sky or blow smoke in Lewis’ face.

“I’d hate to lose you.”

“I— You would?” Lewis is watching him intently as if James’ face holds the clue to some unsolved case. As if he’s waiting for something.

“Yes,” Lewis says. “More that is probably advisable.” Lewis is still standing a bit too close, watching him with a steady, probing gaze. He is asking a question with his eyes that James can’t be interpreting correctly. Lewis can’t mean what James thinks he means, what James wants him to mean. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Are you— _No_.” James feels his ears go hot, and his throat. But it’s too dark in the alley for Lewis to be able to tell. If he’s reading this wrong, and he must be, there’s no other rational explanation.

“You’re not. Reading this wrong.” Either Lewis can read his mind, or he said all that out loud. “For a detective, you can be a mite oblivious,” Lewis says with a hint of a laugh. James can only stare.

James blinks and Lewis is still there, still too close, his arms held awkwardly by his sides as if he’s resisting the urge to move them somewhere else. He shouldn’t have switched to whisky after the fourth beer.

“James.” Lewis places his hand on James’ upper arm. His tone is gentle, questioning. James meets Lewis’ gaze for the first time since he lit his cigarette and sees affection beyond what would be appropriate for an inspector in regard to his sergeant.

James is standing on the edge of a cliff. It is a familiar cliff, always before with the certainty of doom at the bottom. But now. Now there is a net that looks like it might hold.

James flicks his cigarette into the alley and closes the gap between them. He cups Lewis’ cheek in his hand and Lewis doesn’t flinch or step away or punch him, he leans into the touch. James licks his lips and Lewis’ eyes follow the progress of his tongue. James leans in further and kisses him.

Lewis almost growls when their lips meet, brings one hand to the nape of James’ neck and presses him against the wall with the other. James leans forward and kisses him back fiercely, pulling Lewis against him. Someone moans. Or they both do. James snakes his hand up under Lewis’ suit jacket, feels the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and Lewis moves forward a fraction more, pressing his thigh between James’ legs.

“Fuck,” James gasps, breaking the kiss, all but panting into Lewis’ mouth.

This is not how he imagined this at all. This is better than he’d imagined. Kissing Lewis, he’d thought, would involve gently coaxing Lewis through his misgivings, difficult conversations, and a slow coming to terms with the physical side of the relationship. Not this immediacy. Not this intensity. Not Lewis’ entire body pressing him against rough stone, Lewis’ teeth and tongue on James’ throat where his shirt is open and tie loosened.

“Been waiting for you to catch on,” Lewis says mouthing at his collarbone.

“Fuck,” James says again, arching his neck to give Lewis better access. “I’ve been an idiot. I never thought—”

“Ah, but you did think, didn’t you? You never acted.”

“I was— I never—” James’ words abandon him in a moan as Lewis nips at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Lewis huffs a laugh against his skin.

“Never thought I’d see you lost for words,” Lewis says. James can hear the smile in Lewis’ voice though his eyes have drifted shut. He opens them to Lewis smiling an affectionate smile that James never thought he would see directed at him. He feels a bit light-headed, and it’s not down to the drink.

“I think we—,” James starts then shakes his head. “My place is closer?” he manages, unable to keep the statement from coming out a question.

“Aye,” Lewis says. “Home, James.”

_____


End file.
